


What my story brings

by Altenprano



Category: Dungeons & Dragons (Roleplaying Game)
Genre: Linnet Ashford, Quendalia Setting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-23
Updated: 2019-10-23
Packaged: 2020-12-31 16:16:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,855
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21148580
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Altenprano/pseuds/Altenprano
Summary: Bards don't get to be heroes- it's their job to record such stories, not feature in them- and yet Linnet finds herself being honored as a hero of the realm, alongside her party, for slaying an Elder Tempest and dismantling the Chaos Chasers.Prompt: Legend





	What my story brings

**Author's Note:**

> This is set in the world of Quendalia, a setting written and DM'd by my friend Samuel (@SamLikesDragons on Twitter), and is just a small fictober piece for the prompt "Legend."

_ Don’t be so scared. _

Linnet can almost hear Fabian’s voice in the back of her head as she hesitates behind the turn of the wall, though she can’t tell if it’s reassuring her or taunting her, though the meaning is far from her thoughts.

She can hear what lies around the corner, at the bottom of the grand stair- the happy buzz of partygoers, and a string quartet playing a stately waltz- and the image of light catching the crystal chandelier, rippling across folds in silk dresses, and casting dancing shadows across the ballroom floor comes easily enough. It’s a proper party, nothing like the harvest dances of her childhood or the revels that her troupe held to mark the holy days as they passed. There’s a quartet, the women are wearing lovely gowns, and there’s fancy food on silver platters and tabaxi wine in crystal glasses.

There’s also the fact that it’s held in the Governor’s palace, and there’s nobles from all over the continent present, nevermind the heads of the other cities, including Queen Rualyn of Edheltal. There’s no pretending that it isn’t awkward for her, to be the only half-elf on the whole grounds who isn’t part of the staff, or that there is currently a ball being held in her honor- in her party’s honor, she’d tried to tell the Governor's steward, but it was clear he wouldn’t hear any of it- and she is frightfully absent from it.

The rest of her party is already in the ballroom, and here she is, hiding at the top of the staircase like a faint-hearted child, not like the hero others make her out to be. 

She knows what they’ve taken to calling her and while she can’t say she disapproves of the name, it isn’t one she particularly likes enough to have chosen for herself. 

“We don’t always pick our names, little bird,” Cres said when Linnet finally had time to do a Sending once things had settled, hoping for, at the very least, advice from the troupe’s fortune-teller. “And the names we’re given aren’t always who we are.” 

Linnet knows the power of names- it features in many stories, and she’s seen it at work- and she knows that names can change. After all, isn’t her own name one she picked for herself when she was given her own act with the troupe? There’s a difference between a name that’s chosen, and one that’s given, and then there’s the question of who gives the name- a whole other matter entirely. 

She can’t get comfortable with this new name, no matter how hard she tries. It’s the feeling of wearing clothes clearly meant for someone else, someone taller and someone who is distinctly not her. It would fit someone else in her party, perhaps Mayhem or Vasryl would wear it more comfortably than she- it would make a better story anyway, for the hero to be anyone but her. 

Without much thought, she hums the familiar four-note phrase and watches as four small birds of condensed light wink into existence around her. She guides them in a careful circle, smiling at the play of soft light across the skirt of her ballgown before she dismisses the spell.

She wishes someone from the troupe was here- that would at least ease the uncomfortable coil in her stomach, to know there is a friend amongst the revelers. The troupe’s patron may be present, mingling with the nobles who arrived with the Herald from Maidstone, but they’re practically a stranger, and Linnet wouldn’t know how to pick their face out of a crowd, not like she would be able to find Puck or any other member of her family. Not many of her troupe would be welcome in the ballroom, and some of them would undoubtedly make a show of themselves, but even if it was just Tatya helping her get dressed, it would make this easier. 

What will Fabian make of this? 

Word travels quickly through Moonlight, and Linnet doesn’t doubt that the news reached him as soon as she and her party returned to Frostcall. She hadn’t thought to do a Sending to him- or to her mother, for that matter- so all he would have was word of mouth, and she doubted he would believe the story that his sister had slain an Elder Tempest. 

“People’re asking where you are. I’m not going to make excuses for you.”

Mayhem’s voice in her ear causes her to startle, even though she recognizes the touch of his magic, as well as the nature of a Sending. She takes a moment to settle herself before she replies, “Upstairs. Won’t be long, promise. Not asking for excuses, just nervous.” 

If people are beginning to ask, she knows she can’t hide for much longer. She’s not like Fabian, who’s at home in the shadows and out of sight; she thrives on the energy of a crowd- it’s almost as essential to her magic as music- and she isn’t particularly good at hiding to begin with. If anyone comes looking for her, they’ll find her hiding in the upper hall, and somehow, it strikes her as inappropriate, for a hero of the realm to be found cowering behind a corner, when not a month ago she faced down an Elder Tempest. 

_ Chin up, dear, and don’t forget to smile. _

It’s what Tatya said to Linnet the night of her first solo act, and Linnet can almost hear the seamstress’s reassurance as she turns the corner, moving carefully towards the top of the grand stair.

She lifts her chin, thinking of the noblewomen she’s seen and trying to mirror the grace of their posture as she descends the stair, a hand on the intricately-carved rail. She’ll never be one of them, but she’s very good at pretending, not that she’s ever had a chance to pretend to be noble- not until now, anyways. 

Silence settles over the crowd, threaded through with whispers as the Governor’s steward, a gnome gentleman in the livery of Titanstep, announces her arrival to the gathered nobles and city heads. 

Her gaze flits from face to face until she finds her party, and she feels her lips curl into a smile at the reassurance of their presence, like when she used to catch sight of Fabian in the wings during her performances. Domination returns the smile, while Mayhem and Vasryl acknowledge her with brief, respectful nods- the only one missing is Gates of Jade, but Linnet knows if he could be here, he would.

She catches several strange looks, the kind that suggest it wasn’t widely known until now that the Tempest-Slayer was a half-elf (what would they think, then, if they found out she was the daughter of a hedge-witch as well?), as she reaches the bottom of the stair. There isn’t time for her thoughts to linger as she catches a familiar face standing behind an eladrin woman, and she feels her step falter. 

For a moment, it’s staring into a mirror- same dark eyes, same ash hair with the faintest trace of their father’s red- and then she finds the differences in the scar across his cheek, the way his hair was pulled back from his face and tied with a night-blue ribbon. He wears a brocade jacket with familiar birds embroidered in silver-blue thread, and she wonders for a moment who made it for him. 

_ Fabian? _

His expression doesn’t falter- collected as always- but the return message comes with a feeling of recognition.  _ Linnea. _

She doesn’t think to correct him.  _ Why? _

An inclination of the head towards the eladrin woman. No reply. 

Her heart falls for a moment, but she doesn’t let her posture falter. Still, it’s nice to see you.

There’s another lengthy pause, made longer as she curtsies to the heads of the city who come to receive her on the ballroom floor, exchanging brief words with Dean Dreamsong of Faircrystal and Emperor Buttonfoot of Frostcall, who both thanked her for her party’s service, and the Emperor offered to send a crate of his favorite tea with her home to Cradlewood. Queen Rualyn regards her with the cool indifference Linnet has grown used to from elves, and there is no exchange with the sand elf woman beyond what is polite. 

As soon as formalities are exchanged, Linnet makes her way towards where her party is gathered, glad that no one thinks to ask her to dance. If they were, she isn’t sure what she would do, seeing as she’s never learned how to dance anything other than a reel, and now doesn’t seem like the best time to learn- perhaps she will ask Vasryl to teach her when they have a moment. 

She’s not far from where Mayhem and Vasryl when she feels a hand on her shoulder, familiar enough that she doesn’t startle, but instead, she turns to face her brother. “Don’t you have business to see to?”

Fabian inclines his head and shrugs. “Don’t be cold, Linnea,” he says, “it doesn’t suit you.” 

“I thought you were busy.”

“Lady Amethyst can entertain herself for a few minutes.”

Linnet glances where she saw the eladrin woman, and sees the noblewoman is engaged in conversation with an exceptionally tall tiefling with a broken horn and a lanky human gentleman. “I thought you didn’t want anything to do with me or the troupe,” she tells Fabian. “Something about them not being your family.”

“You’re still my sister,” he says, clasping his hands behind his back, “and I’m proud of you.”

She furrows her brow. “Are you?”

He hesitates- she can see it in his eyes, the temptation to reply with a sharp remark and take back any compliment he might have paid her, an act she half-expects- and then nods. “Yes.”

Up close, she can see the birds on his coat more clearly, and she recalls the mask he wore when they met at the crossroads, in a time that feels like ages ago now. 

“A linnet.” 

His lip twitches into a smile. “Mother always said you were the smart one, though I’m beginning to doubt it.” 

“Well, you’re the clever one, so of course you got it past me, and no offense, I’ve been rather busy the last few months- it never occured to me.” 

“Just because you were being a hero doesn’t give you an excuse.”

“That’s hardly fair!” She can’t help but grin at his teasing, and there is an urge to give him a playful shove, as if they’re twelve in the schoolyard again, but she remembers where they are, and stops. “Fabian!”

“What? Go be with your friends, and I’m sure there’s plenty of people who want to say they’ve met the Tempest-Slayer.”

She wrinkles her nose. “Even if I’m not what they expected?”

“Give it a hundred years, and it won’t matter, who they expect you to be.”

Linnet is about to respond, to insist it  _ will _ matter, but Fabian leaves before she can even open her mouth to speak, and she resigns herself to joining her friends for the remainder of the evening.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you very much for reading! I hope you enjoyed this piece, and please feel free to leave any comments/questions/criticism in the comments section below.


End file.
